


Just What You're Worth

by orphan_account



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Depression, Dropped series because I don't know how to commit to anything, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Peter isn't good at dealing with his demons, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, This will eventually be a Peter/Tony or Peter/Steve fic I just haven't decided yet, Underage - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-12-04 12:59:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11555697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Her voice is laced with worry and he doesn’t have to face her to know that her forehead is creased in concern, that she’s looking at him with that look of hers that makes him want to break down and tell her everything that he’s been keeping from her for the past twelve months.





	Just What You're Worth

The night his Uncle Ben was murdered still haunts him, lingers behind in the back of his mind like a bad aftertaste – a constant reminder of how weak he had been, how his own selfish actions hurt those he cared about. He’d be lying if he said none of it bothered him. Even now, a whole year later; a whole year of mourning for his loss, a whole year of swinging around New York in nothing but red-and-blue spandex, stopping criminals in their tracks and keeping his city safe and sound.

 

A whole year of guilt eating away his being, leaving a gaping hole in his chest that longed to be filled by the one thing he couldn’t have, could never have again, no matter how many bad guys he put behind bars.

 

At night, through the thin walls of their small Queens apartment, May can hear him crying out in his sleep – can hear the groans of the mattress beneath him as he twists and turns, convulsing in mental anguish from reliving the same nightmare over and over and over again.

 

Ben is laying there, helpless on the grimy city sidewalk, his weathered face contorting in unbearable pain from the throbbing wound in his chest. There’s blood everywhere. Soaking his shirt. Pooling on the ground beside him. Peter hesitates ( _Is that_ really _him? There’s–there’s no way._ ) before kneeling down and pulling him into his arms. Ben’s body is small and cold and frail and he feels as though he’s handling the most delicate object in the world; the slightest wrong move and he’s gone, ripped straight from his grasp. And even though he’s right in front of him, he seems so far away. A hand reaches out to touch his damp cheek and – _when had he started crying?_ He holds onto the back of Ben’s hand, desperate to keep him there, as if clinging onto him will keep him alive and _with him_ ––

 

He screams. Choked sobs fill the room, the entire apartment, and he struggles to catch his breath as he thrashes around in his twin bed, tensing and jerking and tensing until May is bursting through his door, rushing to him in her nightie and positioning herself at his feet. She bends down over him, taking one of his balled fists in her hand and running her thumb across his knuckles gently, combing her other hand through his hair and shushing him with her soft voice.

 

“ _It’s okay, Peter. I’m right here. It’s okay._ ”

 

He doesn’t wake, but calms eventually under her touch, slight tremors shaking his body and feeble whimpers vibrating in the back of his throat. May studies his face in the dark, the small sliver of moonlight shining through his window outlining the wince pulling at his features, the way his brows are drawn together in discomfort. A wave of guilt rushes over her, nearly suffocating, and she finds it hard to calm the beating of her heart pounding against her ribs. _He deserves better than she could ever hope to give him._

 

She leaves his room at a quarter past three, when he’s stopped trembling and his pained sounds have subdued, feeling drained and exhausted and defeated.

 

The morning after is slow to start. May sleeps through two alarms, and begrudgingly reaches out to silence the third before swinging her legs over the edge of her bed. The bags under her eyes are deep and defined, and her reflection all but startles her while she finishes in the bathroom.

 

Peter shuffles out of his bedroom while she prepares a cup of coffee in the kitchen, dragging his feet across the wooden flooring, as if the weight of his body is burdening him. He reaches for one of the overhead cabinets and grabs a bowl without speaking a word. May offers him a brief greeting, her tone wavering like she’s stepping over glass and Peter grimaces at how defensive she sounds. He settles for a nod and grunts out a response, grabbing a box of cereal from the top of the fridge and filling his bowl. May watches him for a moment, leaning against the counter while she waits for the coffee maker’s signal. He squirms under her gaze, unconsciously staring down to avoid her eyes as he finishes making his breakfast.

 

The silence between them is stifling, unsettling, and he wants to say something–anything–to break the tension. He opens his mouth to talk, but she beats him to the punch.

 

“ _You know you can talk to me if you need to, right?"_

 

It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before. Her voice is laced with worry and he doesn’t have to face her to know that her forehead is creased in concern, that she’s looking at him with that _look_ of hers that makes him want to break down and tell her everything that he’s been keeping from her for the past twelve months. He resists the urge to meet her eyes, instead grabbing his bowl and slumping down in the dining bench, the words falling from his mouth automatically, like they did every morning after: “I’m really fine, don’t worry about it.”

 

May knows better than to push it any further. Peter would come to her if and when he needed her, she hoped to God. But as long as he shrugs her off, she distances herself from the problem, tries to distract herself with cleaning and tidying around the house, or throwing herself into whatever local story they were covering on the news. She joins him at the table, claiming a seat across from him, her coffee piping hot and brewed strong for a nice boost – the only way she’ll make it through the day in one piece. Peter appreciates the sentiment, feels a small pang of guilt for brushing her off so coldly; he draws his lips thin in as best a smile as he can muster, a peace offering, and she returns it with one of warmth.

 

“ _Well would you look at that? Cold broth on momo, who’d’ve thunk?_ ”

 

Peter quirks an eyebrow at her sudden shift of mood, bringing his attention to the journalistic story being reported on the television screen, and the corners of his mouth curl upward into a more genuine expression at the prospect of May trying for his sake to lighten the mood.

 

“ _Himalayan tonight sound good?_ ”

 

May lifts her drink to her face, peering over the rim of her mug at her nephew, the glow of his smiling face as he scarfs down his cereal easing the strain on her heart. Within a matter of seconds, he emerges from the attack on his bowl triumphant, gulping up the last bit of flavored milk before setting it back down on the table and using his forearm to wipe the excess from his mouth. As he stands to leave, May catches his hand on the table, and takes her bottom lip between her teeth to mull over her next words carefully.

 

Finally, “ _I love you, Peter._ ”

 

“I love you too, Aunt May.”

**Author's Note:**

> anyway, just think of this as a short prologue.


End file.
